Bittersweet
by SlimyBunny
Summary: Either way they’re both Upper East Side royalty destined not for Happily Ever After, but for the Ostroff Center. Perhaps, she thinks sardonically, they’ll have adjoining rooms. Oneshot. B/C. No spoilers!


**A/N So I worked on this during the weekend and it's still pretty rough. I bet there are a bunch of grammatical errors and what not, so you'll have to be pretty forgiving when you read this. I really wanted to smooth it out before I posted it, but I've been staring at my laptop for several hours now and if I have to read over this once more I think I may hurt myself. So enjoy! **

**Please review!**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Bittersweet**

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Only in the dark of the night will Blair Waldorf admit to herself that she is exactly like Chuck Bass.

Perhaps she is only able to admit this at night because no one will be able to see the barely suppressed grin that seems to accidentally slip onto her face when the thought comes. Or perhaps it is because at night people like Blair and Chuck are most in their element—darkness and evil and all that other trivial stuff. But she has to admit there is something about the darkness that seems to be able to conceal even the most volatile secrets.

Because at night she finds herself admitting a lot of things.

She admits that her search for Prince Charming and happily ever after is more or less hopeless. She admits that Nate and Serena, hell even Nate and anyone who didn't reek of Brooklyn, made more sense then they ever did. She admits that Eleanor probably loves her, but she will never love her the way Blair wants her to. She admits that she doesn't just love the way _he _(there's no need for clarification because there is only one he that seems to enter her mind these days) pushes her, the way he makes her feel like she's the most perfect thing in the world, and the way he can tell her mood by the way she's wearing her hair, but that she loves him, all of him; she loves Chuck Bass.

Tonight she is lying in her king sized bed with her Egyptian cotton sheets (1000 thread count, just the way she likes it) and she is planning mass destruction and pain for a wide-eyed innocent from Idaho when the forbidden thought comes (they're not Chuck and Blair, Blair and Chuck because Blair is Chuck and Chuck is Blair), and she lets it flood into her mind and consume her because at night Blair Waldorf doesn't have to pretend anymore.

They are exactly alike, two peas in a pod; each other's cookie if God was the hypothetical baker (Blair Waldorf did have her more philosophical moments though, if asked, she would deny it fervently, claiming that those were reserved for the hippies and semi-starlets at Brown).

When she had spoken to Serena about her plans for Corn Shuck-er, Serena had sighed and replied with an 'if you must', refusing to get her golden (soon to be Brown, Blair thinks delightedly) hands dirty, and then rolled her eyes. Blair had acted affronted of course, because affronted was her default emotion, but the truth was she didn't really blame Serena for her reaction. The words 'black ops' and 'off the radar' uttered by an Upper East Side princess sauntering down the halls of an elite private school as her maid followed behind while walking a designer puppy that probably cost more than its namesake would have seemed ridiculous to anyone but him.

Never to him.

Chuck always understands.

She sighs, and shifts about on her bed, imagining how much easier this would be if he was with her.

If she asked, he would help her—even now as his problems grew larger than high school, larger than Yale, larger than even Big Bart Bass, because even through death and their own denial, they were still (and would still be) Chuck and Blair. She sighs again, seeing much too clearly the contrast between what wanted to do and what she had to do.

She loved him, of that she was sure. And she was sure that he loved her too (although perhaps she wasn't quite as assured in this fact as she was in the previous), and they would always be Blair and Chuck (even less assurance).

They were destined ('inevitable' were his words, but Blair thought that destined sounded much more romantic) from the start, although if there was a God out there Blair wonders what she did to deserve a soul mate like Chuck Bass (besides the plotting, the cheating, the witch-hunts, the lying, and the manipulating others for no good reason at all).

But perhaps Chuck Bass was right (damn that mother-Chucker); perhaps they weren't destined, they were simply inevitable because unlike Serena and Nate they simply accepted their wealth, the fact that they had the world bowing at their feet without really having to work for it, and they fact that they were different, probably better, than other people and no amount of slumming and Brooklyn-dating was going to change that. They saw the world as it was.

They were too much alike in this perfectly fabricated world of pretenses to stay apart.

Inevitable.

And they would always be Chuck and Blair (after her mini mind rant she is much more assured) but right now they couldn't be.

So that meant that she was on her own.

It was a funny feeling, being really and truly on her own. She had felt it only once before when she went to someone she trusted for help and he had turned her down in the harshest manner possible, all the while quietly sipping his scotch. Now, despite the fact that it was only one year later, she felt decades older—from who she had been then; although in the moment he uttered those words she seemed to have gained another twenty years or so, skipping Grace Kelly and going straight to Better Davis in _Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? _(she feels the same age now as she did in that moment, except now its worse because she is _old_ all the time, and no amount of Botox could fix this).

She wonders how she got to be this way; an old lady with a crippled, crippled heart.

She chuckles to herself—no, she doesn't CHUCKle, she giggles—who would have thought it would be her love for _Chuck Bass_ that would destroy her? The same Chuck Bass that pulled her scarf off of her neck that first day of school, trampled on it, and promptly told her that scarves were not her 'thing'? The same Chuck Bass that had taken Georgina Spark's virginity, even though she had sworn up and down that she'd saw the three sixes on Georgina's neck when she had went swimming with her and Serena? The same Chuck Bass that had saw her best friend and his best friend get so inebriated that they, for lack of a better word, fucked? The same Chuck Bass that she had to carry home with Nate, time after time, because he kept accidentally tipping the Captain's scotch bottle a little bit too far? That Chuck Bass?

But then again, she thinks now, it is not so improbably to love Chuck Bass, because he _is_ the exact replica of her, and even though she's had (having, because problems didn't just disappear for people like Blair and Chuck, the way it so seemingly did for golden-haired princesses) a few problems with herself, Lord knows (and Serena too) that she does love herself.

The only real difference between the two of them is that he chooses to destroy his liver, while she goes for her esophagus and tooth enamel—no big difference at all. Either way they're both Upper East Side royalty destined not for Happily Ever After but rather the Ostroff Center.

Perhaps, she thinks sardonically, they'll have adjoining rooms.

And if they get this sick, sort-of fairytale, there will be no pumpkins turning into carriages, no Fairy Godmother, no singing birds and definitely no twittering mice—instead it'll end with him holding her hair as she puked, expelling loneliness and self consciousness with her breakfast, and she hauling him out of his limo and into the hospital to get his stomach pumped.

It's a bittersweet ending, that was for sure, but in lives like theirs, which was dark, bitter, and twisted (painful, lonely, and just plain scary) it is all they can hope for.

.

.

.

.

..

..

.

.

.

.

**A/N Hope you've enjoyed it! Please, please, please, please review? (Told myself not to beg, but then again I told myself not to bite my nails, and here I am tapping on the keyboard with my shredded nails.) **


End file.
